Spells of Blood and Kin

 

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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To my grandmother, who is also a writer. Thanks for handing down some of your particular magic.

 

Acknowledgments

I started this book alone, or so I thought. By the time I finished it, I realized how wrong I was. I'm lucky to have many kinds of support and many wonderful people in my life, and many who are not mentioned here are still very much in my thoughts.

The first chapter of this book was workshopped at Viable Paradise XII. Instructors Jim Macdonald, Debra Doyle, John Scalzi, Steven Gould, Laura Mixon, Elizabeth Bear, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, and Teresa Nielsen Hayden all helped me hone my craft, but more important, introduced me to the writing community that still helps me thrive. Classmates I met there have gone from occasional conference meetups to valued colleagues and dear friends. Marko Kloos, Julie Day, Curtis Chen, Katrina Archer, Chang Terhune, and all the rest of you: Dirty Dozen for the win.

The Nachos and Narratives writing group, Nicole Winters, Stephen Geigen-Miller, and Melanie Fishbane, and past members Heather Jackson, Sean Davidson, and Greg Beettam: you are all quality writers and quality people, and I'm honored to share my work with you and share yours in return.

I've been part of a number of other writing groups, retreats, and informal clusters in the time it took to finish this book, and I'm also grateful for the input and support of Bill Hopkins, Mike Rooks, Pam Chackeris, Michael J. DeLuca, Scott Andrews, Erica Hildebrand, Al Bogdan, Gemma Files, and Leah Bobet. Jennifer Brinn deserves a special mention for giving me a perfectly timed piece of advice on the ending.

Connor Goldsmith, my agent, is always a delight to work with.

My wonderful editor, Quressa Robinson, was unfailingly insightful and positive. I'm also thankful to copy editor Sara Ensey, interior designer Michelle McMillian, jacket designer Lisa Pompilio, and the rest of the St. Martin's Press/Thomas Dunne team.

I was immensely grateful to have help with some language: Nora Anderson with the Spanish and Alex Gershon, Leonid Gershon, Sophia Gershon, and Michael Gershon with the Russian. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

My parents kindled my love of Russian folklore by giving me a pair of storybooks illustrated by Ivan Bilibin. I'll be forever glad that they saw nothing wrong with their small daughter's interest in flying witches and fiery-eyed skulls. And finally, my most constant supporters: Olinka Nell, the one person in the world who has read everything I've written. Bevin Reith, who takes me and my work utterly seriously but is equally serious about making time for workouts, sunsets, and new microbreweries. My mother, Anya Humphrey, who combines high expectations with unconditional love, and is always willing to listen, even when I only want to talk about hockey.

 

One

APRIL 25

  
WAXING GIBBOUS

Baba had been dead for four days by the time Lissa got to speak with her.

The first day went by in a shocky stutter. 9-1-1. Waiting with Baba's body on the kitchen floor, even though by then she knew. One of the paramedics squeezing Lissa's hand before loading the stretcher into the ambulance.

The other paramedic was doing some kind of methodical resuscitation drill, and Baba's body twitched dully with the movement and lay still again, and Lissa kept looking and then looking away. The ambulance siren blared, the paramedics passed each other implements, the radio buzzed with terse talk, and at the center of all this urgency, Baba was already past help.

Lissa could see a slice of Queen Street through the rear window: cars and bike couriers that had veered from their paths, a streetcar immobile on its track. Within the ambulance, columns of neat drawers and coiled cables, between which the two paramedics moved with the ease of total familiarity, never quite brushing anything. Lissa sat still where they put her.

“You can hold her hand,” one of the paramedics said.

Lissa did. It wasn't the right temperature, and the skin felt like candle wax. She let go as soon as the paramedic's gaze moved on.

“Are you her executor? Is there a religious official your grandmother would want present? What are her beliefs around organ donation?”

Yes, and no, and totally opposed, though Lissa could not go into the explanation with anyone. She had to answer the same questions three more times: beside the stretcher in the ER after the doctor had pronounced Baba dead, and then again with a different doctor while Baba's body was carried away somewhere Lissa was not invited to follow.

Even after the body was gone, Lissa's mind still kept jarring her with the image of Baba's face, open-mouthed, eyelids stuck halfway. And the froth at her mouth, which had spilled out and crusted on the kitchen floor. And how was Lissa supposed to get to the sink without coming near that spot?

“Is there someone you'd like to call?” said the last doctor, a young-looking Korean man, pushing a desk phone toward Lissa's hand.

Lissa flinched and tried to make it look like she'd meant to brush her hair back. “Um. No?” she said.

The doctor made a compassionate face. “Are you sure? You can take as long as you want.”

There was the lawyer, and Father Manoilov, who would arrange the funeral, but Lissa knew that wasn't what the doctor had meant. He'd meant someone who would look after Lissa. And there wasn't anyone like that now.

Lissa took a taxi home, though it felt utterly wrong to leave Baba's body at the hospital. Before she had left, the doctor had handed her a manila envelope containing Baba's rings and the gold chain she'd worn about her neck. Lissa put the envelope in her pocket, took it out and put it in her purse, took it out again and held it with both hands, just to be certain.

And then there were those calls to make, and all the while, the image of Baba's face kept coming back to her, along with the feel of room-temperature skin, making her want to wash her hands over and over.

She did that as soon as she reached the house. She sterilized the phone too, which made no sense at all.

As soon as Father Manoilov had confirmed the booking for the church, Lissa found her shaking hands dialing her father's number.

Dad had never liked Baba, his mother-in-law; thought her superstitious, didn't like her influence on Lissa. But surely, he'd want to know; surely, he'd want to come—

It was late in London, and he didn't pick up. Lissa left a voice mail. She sat by the phone in case he called back. She woke up still in the chair, in the early hours, in the silent house. The phone never rang.

APRIL 25

  
WAXING GIBBOUS

Nick didn't actually remember being kicked in the ribs, but he was sore there and gagging for breath. When he leaned forward to pick up the smoldering joint he'd dropped, blood dripped down his shaggy hair and onto his hand.

“Well, that was … shit,” he said, and he sat back on his heels, feeling a hot trickle down the side of his face. He groped around for his phone. Gone, of course. So were the credit cards. They'd left him some change, a pack of gum, and his student ID.

Jonathan was hanging over the edge of the Dumpster, heaving. “What the fuck?” he said between gasps.

“You okay?”

Jonathan shrugged limply. “Think so.” He leaned in to puke again.

Nick got to his feet. Vicious spins rocked him, enough to make him grab on to Jonathan's shoulder. Sweat ran on him under his T-shirt.

He spent some time just leaning there beside Jonathan, smoking the rest of the joint to steady himself—long enough that the cockroaches started coming out from under the Dumpster again. Nick couldn't tell if his head was injured or if he just should have passed on that last round of shots. Figured the pot could only help, but it didn't seem to be kicking in.

Jonathan hauled himself upright and smoothed his rucked T-shirt over his bony chest. “'m okay,” he said. “I think they took all my stuff, though. You?”

“Um,” Nick said.

“Oh, hang on,” Jonathan said, and he went back to vomiting.

“You are bleeding,” said someone else. His voice had an accent—Russian or Polish or something.